I am a bruised peach.

Creased with brown pushed-in places,

almost unbearably juicy

and pink like clouds in a summer storm.

It’s been years since I felt

clean and and fuzzy.

At heart, I wonder if there’s more

than a dark stone.

My parents were young

and disheveled, which is why

I am old and disheveled, I think.

They were loosely moored/tightly wound:

‘hug everyone’ seemed to be de rigueur,

only straight As were allowed,

flannels were ok but not dungarees.

There was uncomfortable silence

when new foods were introduced.

Books were everywhere.

There was a great deal of yelling,

like the admonishment

of shitting or getting off the pot

during a thunderstorm

(“you’ll get yer ass electrocuted!”).

Homespun wisdom came from

coal mines and Campbell’s soup,

with a pinch of German deli rye.

The girl in the yellow dress

snapped her fingers when she walked.

I thought she was deaf and clapping

to the glorious rhythms underfoot

but I think she was just a bit crazy.

–

The man with her didn’t seem to mind.

He looked like he’d escaped into the bank

vestibule, counting coins for penance.

When the inner voice

is a shrew,

and the feeling of

unrepentant malaise

encourages circling…

When walking is

a cacophony of body parts

in deep protest

against a mind so

befuddled, making life

more difficult and more vibrant

and making mistakes

with every step…

When burdens become

heavy like the alone,

there’s nothing left

and it’s frighteningly

simple to fade.

Sultry peepers

took over the night

and I opened

all I had

to take in the sound.